


the book of love

by wildcard_47



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, James Is Probably A Janeite, M/M, Reading Aloud Like Dorks, Soft Kitty Warm Kitty/Singing to Your Crush, Withdrawal Is A Kind of Sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 09:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15992501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: James finds out the extent of Francis's withdrawal sickness, and decides to do something meaningful about it.





	1. Chapter 1

“Evening, all.”

Stepping aboard  _ Terror _ , as Gibson helped him out of his slops and coat, Fitzjames tried and failed to suppress a small yawn, dislodging several small icicles from his nose in the process. Since Francis had begun the long process of drying out, James had become expedition leader  _ de facto _ , with Edward as his second. Within hours, he had intimately understood the blank despair on Francis’s face on the fateful day they lost Sir John; when the Irishman had whispered,  _ I have never wanted anything as little as I want this.  _

It had stung so cruel at the time – cruel to the point of barbarism – but now Fitzjames was in a unique position to see why Francis had not wanted to shoulder such burdens. Had nearly fled from them, even. Over the past few days, James had attempted to become the sort of first many young seamen would look up to. One by whom the crew could be inspired; as Sir John had once inspired him. And yet it seemed he failed at every turn. 

Worse, there could be no refuge from these duties.

Not till Francis pulled through the horrors.

“Sir?” asked Gibson in a quavering voice, and that was when Fitzjames realized he had nearly fallen asleep on his feet. Good god. “Shall we, er, find Lieutenant Little?”

“Please,” murmured James. His head was filled with fog. “My apologies for the delay.”

Genge stepped forward as Gibson departed, and gave James a friendly sort of nod. “I’ll see about getting ya some tea or coffee, as well.”

“T’would be much appreciated, Mister Genge.”

Lord, and he was so exhausted he was now combining his words. He truly was in an altered state. 

As they trudged down to the hold, and passed the officers’ quarters, they nearly ran clear into Jopson, who was pale and trembling, carrying a sick pail with a rag draped over it. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his skin had a jaundiced cast, and his normally cheerful disposition was completely absent.

“Thomas, where’s Lieutenant Little?” Gibson seemed bewildered to find the captain’s steward in such a fraught state. “I thought he’d come down.”

“Haven’t seen him yet, have I?” Jopson snapped, and pushed past his subordinate, barely pausing to acknowledge James’s presence. “Sorry, Captain.”

“No harm done, Jopson.” Fitzjames was certain that no man on  _ Terror,  _ save perhaps Edward, was as exhausted as Crozier’s personal steward. Tending to Francis could not be easy even at the best of times. Tending to him now was likely a Sisyphean task. “Carry on.”

Gibson, by contrast, seemed outraged at such uncharacteristic behavior. “Sir, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll only – let me suss out what’s happened.” James nodded his assent; the young man departed almost immediately, striding after Jopson and calling out with a wounded, “Thomas! What’s the matter with you?”

Left alone with his thoughts for the moment, Fitzjames considered the relative quiet – listened to the soft creaking and clanking from the orlop deck and Mr. Diggle’s stove. Intermittent footsteps and a rumble of unknown voices as men completed their various duties. All paired with the groaning of the ice.

And suddenly this quiet was pierced by a broken, panicked rasp from within.

“Sir John! Sir John!”

James did not pause, did not think, simply bolted for the door of the captain’s great cabin, slammed it shut behind him as he kept on, and yanked open the door to the berth.

“Francis,” he soothed as he rushed forward, unable to dwell on any of the particulars but absorbing them all the same: how the Irishman was death-white and coated in sweat, his nightshirt absolutely filthy, his chapped, bloodless lips split open in several places; how the entire berth smelt of stale vomitus and bile and piss. “Francis, what is it?”

“Where’s Sir John?” Francis croaked again, and actually attempted to rise from his bed; Fitzjames had to stoop and catch him by the shoulders to prevent the man from falling into the floor, though this did not do much good. In his arms, Francis simply dangled over the rail like a limp doll. “Wh – wh – ”

Averting his eyes as Francis pitched forward without direction, and vomited mostly into the nearby bucket, James tried to comfort the poor man as best he could. Hesitantly, he brought one hand to Francis’s sweat-soaked back. The Irishman was shaking so fiercely from fever that his teeth were chattering in between heaves, although he was hot to the touch.

“He’s punishin’ me. Stayin’ away.” Francis whimpered after several minutes, in so plaintive a voice that simply hearing it made James’s skin crawl in sympathy. “Like I did him.”

“No, no. He – ” it was difficult to tell if the man would understand or appreciate being reminded of their leader’s shocking death, “he simply does not know how to help.”

Clearly exhausted, Francis swayed against the carved rail, and so Fitzjames decided to move him, and helped ease the man back against his pillow.

“Here. Rest.”

“He fuckin’ hates me, James.” And Francis began to weep; although no tears appeared on his face; his mouth contorted in soft, soundless sobs as his shaking increased. “Thinks ’m rubbish.”

“Francis, no.” The sight of his first in the grips of complete delirium shook James to the core. “Don’t say such things.”

“‘S true. ‘S my fault.”

“What is?”

“‘M – miserable. Hard t’love.” Francis’s trembling intensified. “Why’m I not enough?”

James had no answer to this anguished question, but it was no matter, as suddenly Francis’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, he strained against the mattress, and began to seize and jerk wildly beneath his blankets. His limbs and body went as stiff as if he were in rigor mortis. A substance like vomitus foamed up from his mouth as he groaned and shook. 

Panicked by the sudden thought that his comrade might truly be at death’s door, James tried to pin his second down using both hands, whispering to him all the while. 

“Francis. Francis. God above.”

Was this what Jopson had been battling, all this time? Why had no one informed him that Francis’s condition was so dire? Why had he not thought to look in on the man, rather than subsisting on headlines and reports?

After several horrifying moments, the convulsions passed. Francis moaned and tried to stir again; James had to get him up and support his weight a second time as he sicked up more bile and phlegm. By the time the second spell of nausea had passed, Francis had gone limp and panting against James’s side. 

Tiny spots of vomit now specked the side of James’s shirt and waistcoat. And there was a wet patch spreading across the tails of Francis’s nightshirt that could only be urine.

Despite all this, the Irishman’s eyes were falling closed as James got him back against his pillows; James did not know if his fellow captain could genuinely sleep whilst feeling so miserable, but fervently hoped it were possible. Francis deserved at least an hour’s peace from such grueling miseries.

“Captain Fitzjames?”

Startling, James glanced up and saw Jopson in the doorway. The young steward did not seem horrified at all; there was a sad, resigned set to his mouth as he took in this filth-ridden, ghastly scene. 

“I – I only wanted to see him,” James whispered, as the steward shut the door of the berth behind him. Suddenly, he felt as trapped as a rabbit in a snare. “But he started to – Jopson, I did not know that he – ”

“No. Er. It’s all right,” said the steward in a flat, tired manner, as he rubbed at reddened eyes. Paradoxically, he seemed impossibly old, like a child who’d become the man of the house far before his time. “I’ll take care of it. Edward – erm, sorry, the Lieutenant – is on his way now, just behind me.”

Quickly, James extricated himself, closing the door to the berth just in time to hear footsteps in the corridor.

“Captain Fitzjames?” Edward called out.

“Here,” James answered.

Edward entered the great cabin with a puzzled expression, glancing to his left with alarmed eyes, as if the two of them were no more than schoolboys committing some grave sin. “Were you speaking to Captain Crozier just now?”

“No.” James simply shrugged, as if he had done nothing so minor as look in on the man. “He’s asleep. Jopson’s within.”

Edward did not question this, although he continued to stare at Fitzjames with some trepidation. “Are you all right, sir?”

Did he not look well? 

Almost simultaneously, Fitzjames realized his hands were trembling, and there was water in his eyes. Quickly, he blinked this back.

“Oh, yes. Everything is all right. Just – ”

He managed to hold his tongue in time, although Edward seemed to take this as a vague description of Francis’s discomfort, and made a sympathetic face.  

“Having a rough time of it, apparently.”

“Yes.” Fitzjames gave the lieutenant a strained, but hopefully genuine-seeming smile. He tried to pitch his voice at its usual buoyant level, or somewhere close to it. “Never easy to see one’s comrades feeling ill, is it?”

Neither man commented further on the issue.

That night, back on  _ Erebus,  _ James could not sleep a wink, though his mind and body screamed for respite. All he could think about as he lay in his berth was Francis, tearful and feverish, seizing in his own vomit and piss-soaked bed, with no one but Jopson to care for him.

_ We have lost Sir John! Do you not feel it?  _ James had shouted this abominable question at their new leader not four hours after Sir John’s death.

_ Why’m I not enough? _

For perhaps the first time since Sir John’s funeral, James believed that Francis Crozier felt that loss more deeply than any of them yet knew. He felt all their absences, and now had naught to do now but dwell on these many losses, all on his own.

Before blowing out the lamp and finally retiring to bed, just before five bells, James decided he would make an increased effort to ensure Francis did not feel alone. Even Francis Crozier did not deserve to linger in such excruciating misery. Not when the man had willingly made the choice to change – to put himself through such wrenching physical agony – and particularly not when their survival still depended on his expertise. 

Yes. Francis deserved to know that decision was not made in vain, and that it did not go unappreciated by the rest of their crew. 

James would make sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

Several visits in succession were rather brief, filled with Francis’s raspy screams for Jopson and James and whisky and any measure of imagined relief.

“Just a draught. One bottle. I’ll ration it. Please, James. Please.”

After each of these visits, James fled the berth in haste and nearly always found himself at the bow of the ship, gripping _Terror’s_ bowline in pretense of monitoring their position. Yet he saw nothing. He observed nothing. Not even the shift of the ice.

Tuunbaq could have eaten him whole and it would still not compare to the hard lump of fear that knotted deep in his stomach, each time he recalled these words.

 

##

 

When Francis woke, Jopson and Goodsir were at each side, easing his vomit-spotted nightshirt over his head. They carefully sponged days’ worth of filth from his frame with water that was shockingly, obscenely  _ warm,  _ and spread clean linens across his bunk before dressing him again, right down to a new pair of socks.

They spooned watery gruel into his mouth. He could not keep it down. They gave him water; it made him retch.

He wanted to speak but could not stop moaning against the cut leather strap clenched between his teeth, and by the time the two men spread a warm, dry, unfrozen blanket over him, the onslaught of chaos had returned.

He even dreamed of Fitzjames, and for the first time in his life saw through him as clearly as if he had Memo Moira’s Second Sight – not as a dash of an officer or a swaggering midshipman, but as a tearful young thing with wispy dark hair, barely more than a babe in short pants, shaking with fright as he was brought to a new home in Hertfordshire. 

Inside the nursery, already full of toys and children’s things – so he was not the only child in the house – a slightly-bronzed slip of a girl, mother or nurse or perhaps even both, crooned to young Fitzjames in what Francis was shocked to hear was Portuguese. 

_ Eu te adoro, bebê. Amorzinho. Jaime. É para você, querido. James. O seu futuro. _

To have glimpsed even this much made Francis weep and shiver and curl into himself between purging every last bit of bile from his stomach. 

James Fitzjames was no gussied-up dandy who was always destined for greatness. He was a bastard. Unwanted. Discarded. Desperate for affection, for adoration, for the kinds of simple overtures that were almost touching in their plainness.

The kind of person Francis Crozier recognized on instinct. 

A man like him.

 

##

 

On his next visit, James arrived just after first watch, absent his usual escort. It was child’s play to pretend he was on some private errand, and to duck down into the hold. When he arrived, he found the officer’s table empty, save for Jopson, who – in stark contrast to his usual productivity – was fast asleep with his head down on the hardwood, mouth open and drooling slightly. A half-full plate and cup sat at his right hand. 

Must have dropped off while he was eating his own supper. 

Rather than attempt to move him, James let the poor lad be for now, and stepped quietly into the captain’s great room, shutting the cabin door behind him and then entering into the berth itself. 

Here, Francis was quiet – perhaps feeling better, and perhaps not, judging by the still-chaotic and rank state of the bunk – but nevertheless, it quieted James’s nerves somewhat to regard the  _ Terror  _ captain in this manner.

“Hello, Francis,” he said quietly, no more than a whisper, and sat down at the desk. “Thought I might come and, er, sit with you for a moment.”

Lord, he felt so ridiculous for doing this. Were the Terror Captain hale and at full health, he’d likely double over laughing. _James Fitzjames, the hero of Shangkiang, come to see me._

“Were you willing, I should tell you a story,” he offered the unconscious Irishman with a smile, “but I know your feelings on my tales of vanity at the best of times.” A pause. He could still think of nothing to say that would not sound false as hell, to paraphrase the Bard. “Perhaps you will better care for a story in which I am not merely building castles in the air, hm?”

No reply. Not that James had expected one.

“Let me see. This was, ah, approximately August, five years ago. I had just met up with the  _ Clio _ . Erm. Went on quite the jaunt around the Far East in order to accomplish it, all the way down to Bombay, before I was able to locate her and take command. All unpaid, of course. From there, Henry and I proceeded to make the old girl seaworthy again. And as it was my first command, I was perhaps a bit more flamboyant than was strictly necessary.”

Pause. No response.

“Normally, you might take this moment to proclaim such flamboyant manners were not left behind in India after all. But you have not yet heard tell about our esteemed ship’s cat. She grew so accustomed to the sea that we would often see her climbing in the riggings, just alongside the men.” He laughed at the memory; the sound echoed throughout the cramped space. “I should mention, at this point, that said ship’s cat was a full-grown cheetah of striking complexion, called Nebet. Scared the dickens out of the local sheiks when we raised the flags.”

A rustling from the berth. James glanced over at Francis, who had stirred but had not opened his eyes.

“Named after an ancient female vizier, if you must know. And a more elegant and noble mascot you have never seen on board one of Her Majesty’s ships. But alas, I am certain our holdover in Jehanum – that translates to Hell in the Jewish vernacular, which you may not know – the city is more commonly known as the port of Muscat. Tragically, I am of the belief that docking at said port is likely what put her in a temper at last.” 

Thus, one night, as I was preparing the logbook – and I do not mind admitting that I had created a very striking sketch of a Zanzibarian goblet in my notes – I got to my feet and stooped down to rummage in the dresser for a bit of ink. And that is when darling Nebet leapt onto my back and scratched at me from behind, like the most roguish midshipman on shore leave.”

He glanced over at Francis, who had still not opened his eyes. Blast.

“I had hoped you might regain consciousness by now, as I am sure you would have much to say about such a predictable predicament.  _ Course the damned thing tried to kill you,  _ or some other cuttingly wry oath. At any rate, the damage was done. Dear Nebet raked her claws across my right shoulder and left fearsome teeth marks in the back of my neck. Someone had to beat her off with an iron bar in order that she should release me. 

Golly. Perhaps this tale is not as cheerful a story as I had imagined. But at any rate, I hope you may please yourself imagining me thus howling and so wounded by my own ship’s cat. LeVesconte could probably tell you the whole tale, should you wish it.”

Still nothing from the berth. James sighed, and reached into his coat pocket. He had also brought a book with him in order to pass the time.

“Hm. If you cannot withstand yet another tale of derring-do, I have also brought something more to your tastes.” Gesturing to the book as he opened it. “Felt you could appreciate a bit of Irish temper, until yours returns in full. Now. To business:  _ A Modest Proposal for Preventing the children of Poor People –  _ blast such simple ambitions, hm? –  _ from being A Burden to their Parents or Country, and making them beneficial to the Publick. _ Goodness, let us hear more on such a fine and deserving subject. This tract, as well you know, writ by Dr. Swift. Ahem. I shall do my best to mimic the accent. Perhaps this abject failure will raise you from your stupor.  _ It is a melancholy object to those, who walk through this great town, or travel in the country, when they see the streets, the roads and cabin-doors crowded with beggars of the female sex, followed by three, four, or six children, all in rags, and importuning every passenger for an alms…. _ ”


	3. Chapter 3

Vilanova de Milifontes. The Lisbon coast. 

Francis did not need to fix their position to remember the clear aqua shade of the sea here; the safe harbor was deeply familiar to him. He could still pick out the mouth of the Mira River as it flowed into the ocean, and above it, the gleaming white terra-cotta gunwale of São Clemente.

Here, lying on a small sandbar and surrounded by rocks, lay  _ Terror,  _ half-submerged in the surf. She had not yet undergone the modifications required to become worthy for polar exploration, and was outfitted – even more oddly, to his seeing eye – as a bomb vessel. Watching her nearly-sunk, Francis imagined the weight and heft of ten cannons and two heavy mortars and all the other artillery, as well as the injuries she had likely sustained to leave her in such condition. What battle had she witnessed, to wind up thus beached? And who had come to her assistance?

Commanding operation of the Lyra brig, along with an unfamiliar ship – Francis caught the name  _ H.M.S. Pyramus  _ on her bow – was a vaguely familiar man, grey-haired and of average height, with a Romanesque profile: an Admiral. He could not place this man until his name was called by one of his men: Sir Thomas Hardy. Although they had never met, Francis knew him then, near-instinctively, from various likenesses and detailed reportings in the newspapers, as well as Sir John’s many stories of the  _ Victory _ at Trafalgar, and Lord Nelson. 

Elsewhere on the beach, nearest the capsizing ship, Hardy’s hawk-faced, bushy-bearded second, Captain George Sartorius, oversaw a mixture of two crews. It was combined of many petty officers and able seamen from his own ship, and many from  _ Terror _ , as they worked together to ensure she did not sink. Possibly awaiting directives from the captain, a small crew of Portuguese hired men – perhaps sailors, perhaps not – stood a meter or so away from this flurry of activity. 

Speaking to them now was a lithe young man in a volunteer's uniform, bronzed by the Lisbon sun and roped with muscle. He was handsome enough, although he had not grown to his full height and still possessed the round-faced awkwardness of a ship’s boy. While he was possibly no more than sixteen, the easy charm and swaggering manner he possessed, combined with his long, dark hair, made him unmistakable.

_ “...é por favor, cuidado com o cordame…” _

“Volunteer Fitzjames!”

James turned. “Sir!”

“Tell them to concentrate on the main cargo hold first.”

“Aye, sir,” answered the young Fitzjames, who turned back to the Portuguese with a knowing grin. _“Ele gostaria que você de focar a carga, no caso, não era óbvio. É ele vai te recompensa muito generosamente para o seu trabalho.”_

Francis had to smile. Only James would be able to motivate malingerers and malcontents by playing to their wits, and reminding them how much they stood to get paid, should they put in a full day of labor. It really was remarkable.

Suddenly, the scene shifted, and they were somewhere on board the ship, later that night. Here, in the middle of the orlop deck, with what appeared to be a Portuguese  _ guitarra _ in hand, Fitzjames led the able seamen and petty officers of the  _ Pyramus,  _ as well as the Portuguese sailors – who had, apparently, kept to their word – in a spirited round of song.

Picking out the first few notes as to draw knowing whistles and cheers from the crowd, Fitzjames began to play  _ Spanish Ladies  _ with great feeling. Yet instead of breaking into the familiar first verse with the rest of the Englishmen, he began to translate it into Portuguese for the others in their group, seemingly off the cuff.

_ “Adeus, queridas senhoras espanholas!” _

Roaring with laughter as they sang along in the usual way, the English sailors seemed delighted by this trick. In turn, the Portuguese accompanied James in good humor. And even the senior officers below decks, Francis noted, with no small trace of irony, appeared impressed by Fitzjames’ command of the language. Or what they could make of it, anyway. 

It was easy to see why; the gift truly was remarkable. James was able to translate some of the most difficult idioms at the spur of the moment, with nary a stutter, all whilst appearing at his leisure and garnering full attention among the rowdy group.

By the time every man had took up his full glass, ready to drink to the health of true-hearted lasses everywhere, Fitzjames had risen to his feet, strutting and leaping all across the deck and benches as he played, stopping only to rib or greet his favorite young comrades before concluding the final verse:

“ _ Brinde à saúde de meninas adoráveis!” _

“Three cheers for Fitzjames!” came a voice from the back, as they all raised their glasses.

“Huzzah!” cried the men of the  _ Pyramus _ . 

Several of his nearest shipmates, most of them quite a bit older than James, cuffed him on the arms or tugged at his hair in affectionate, brotherly fashions. Oddly, Francis was so moved by such shared camaraderie, and the successful saving of  _ Terror  _ by this crew _ ,  _ that he wished he could do the very same. 

“Huzzah!” 

Fitzjames blushed with pleasure as he handed the instrument off to its original owner, and they clasped hands in farewell.

_ “Huzzah!” _

 

##

 

“Sir!” This time, there was chaos instead of silence as James approached the great cabin; Jopson’s soft yet agitated voice was near begging. “Captain, please. Try to sleep.”

“Damn your sleep!” growled a second voice, followed by a gurgle of pain.

James got to the open door of the berth just as Francis weakly shoved at Jopson’s arm. Both men were so exhausted that even this pitiful, limp gesture had the poor steward tripping backwards into the desk.

“Captain Fitzjames,” gasped Jopson as he finally saw Fitzjames in the doorway. Boasting a dirty uniform, and unusually disheveled, he seemed just on the verge of hysterical weeping, or perhaps ripping his dark hair out by the roots in frustration. “I’m sorry – I can’t – ”

“It’s all right, Jopson.” James stepped forward, and put a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Go back to your berth, take the next hour and rest. I’ll stay with Francis till either you or the doctor return. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.” Jopson made a miserable noise as he slunk out into the larger cabin, now looking as glum and self-recriminating as a scolded puppy. “I’ll go, sir.”

From his bed, Francis still attempted to rail at the lad, slurring his words and moaning in pain. “Jopson!”

Even this much action, feeble as it was, agitated the poor man beyond belief.

“Hush, Francis.” James rolled up his shirtsleeves, turned back to the desk, and took up a fresh cold cloth, soaking it in cool water and wringing it out. “You are terrifying him.”

Struggling upright for some reason, Francis paled further, despite the raging fever, and began to shake. James tossed the wet cloth aside and quickly placed a basin in front of the  _ Terror  _ captain; Francis had no sooner sighted it than he bent over double and violently heaved up everything in his stomach.

After several minutes, it seemed as if his nauseous spell had passed, if temporarily, and so James plucked the unclean basin from Francis’s hands, deposited its contents into the toilet in the great cabin, and rinsed it out with the remains of ice melt in the pitcher. Jopson had already put a clean bucket by the door to replace the old one, and so James swapped the two out, leaving the other in the great room, covered by the dirty cloth. Although scut work was nothing he’d been thrilled to perform as a young volunteer, it was easier to bear such things when it was in the service of a suffering friend.

“Now,” he said as he returned, and put a hand to Francis’s back, gently rubbing at his first’s knotted, slumped shoulders. “Once you’ve finished sicking your guts up, you may remain a terror at your leisure.”

Poor Francis was still so weak he listed sideways into James’s chest instead, shivering, as fresh tears brimmed on his lashes. It was a mark of how ill he must have been feeling that he did not shove James away, too. 

“Hurts.”

“I know.” James had the sudden urge to press a kiss into Francis’s greasy, disheveled hair, as if he were nothing but a sickly child. Quickly, he quelled this strange thought, and instead took the cool cloth from before, dipped it into the ice melt, and swiped still-falling tears from one of Francis’s heated cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“Sing to me,” whispered Francis, so low and plaintive that James thought he could not have possibly heard correctly. 

“What?”

When Francis shifted against his arm, with a soft, “please,” James felt he could not deny the man such a comfort.

“Er. All right.” 

James got Francis settled in the berth, and sat back, pulling the chair closer to Francis’s bed. Briefly, he considered the litany of other sailor’s songs he knew. No round of  _ Spanish Ladies  _ today. Nothing too jaunty. Perhaps something sad, or melancholic.

Finally, the tune came to mind – an old trobairitz piece he used to sing as a ship’s boy.

Hesitantly, James cleared his throat, and began to sing:

_ A chantar m'er de so qu'ieu non volria... _

It was a short tune, so when he had finished, and silence settled over the berth again, he was frightfully close to making some silly little joke about quick timing, or perhaps reminding Francis how lucky he was to be half-unconscious. Only had to endure less than a minute of his hideous singing, at any rate.

But Francis seemed more or less mollified by the attempt, although the quietly-pained expression had not left his face. 

If only there was something more James could do to bring him a measure of relief.

“You’ve a beautiful voice, Captain.”

Startling, James turned, saw Doctor McDonald standing out in the berth, a rather apologetic look on his face, and his satchel in hand.

“Golly. Well.” He cleared his throat, moved his chair back from the bed. “Thought it might be better than reading to him, all things considered.”

“Course.” 

McDonald did not press as to why either of these options had presented themselves as the best ones. James moved back to let him through the berth, and took up the doctor’s earlier place in the doorway.

“Didn’t see Jopson out there, did you?”

“Aye.” And McDonald did smile, now, although he was half-occupied with taking Francis’s pulse. “Poor lad’s fast asleep on the floor of his berth, next to a pile of laundry.”

“Good lord,” sighed James. Perhaps it was best that he’d sent the steward away for a bit. “Let us hope he’ll catch more than an hour of rest, in the end. Suppose I shall, ah, get out of your hair in the meantime. Please inform me if his condition changes.”

“Of course. I’ll send a messenger,” said the doctor. He seemed now fully attentive to his work. “Good night, Captain.”

Although James returned to  _ Erebus,  _ and to his berth, he still did not sleep, and paced in the great cabin like a madman for nearly an hour before Bridgens stepped in and offered him a draught of headache powder.

 

##

 

James’s favourite time to visit  _ Terror  _ was once the last watch had ended, when even the senior officers were finally abed. At night, there were few pressing duties to attend to, and there was also a lessened chance of Francis being awake and in pain. It seemed a more opportune moment for James to simply comfort the man. Although he could not comprehend tending to Francis full-time, in the way Jopson so excelled at doing, he could at least offer some small measure of routine.

He also reckoned perhaps it would be easier for Francis to rest if he could be among friends in the early hours, and hear noises other than the groaning of the ice or the shriek of the winds. As so many of the Terrors had volunteered to berth on Erebus, it was likely very odd to contend with such silence in its place.

Tonight, he had decided on singing again:

 

_ Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone _

_ All her lovely companions are faded and gone _

_ No flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh _

_ To reflect back her blushes and give sigh for sigh... _

 

“You know, Francis, I dearly wish I knew more Irish ballads,” he said to his friend’s sleeping form, once the long verse was finished. He was convinced Doctor McDonald had given Francis a sedative of some kind in order to help him rest. Poor fellow had not twitched a muscle, unlike most all of the other visits. “Majority of the ones I know are from Hertfordshire. Or they’re in Portuguese, which likely would not bring you much comfort. Unless you find  _ fado  _ rather comforting, as well.”

James did, not that he could admit as much to anyone else aboard this vessel.

“Suppose you have never heard that style of music. Or rarely heard it.” He let out a huff. “Not much good to anyone but alleycats and bastards, really. No one of your ilk.”

Still no movement from the berth.

“And now I am quite frankly rambling on.” He shifted in his chair, tried to imbue his words with better meaning. “Oh, Francis. I have no one to talk to these days. Edward is amiable, and does a fine job leading  _ Terror _ , but he – is not you. And has not your expertise.” Another sigh. “Likely you should leap for joy if you heard me utter such a comment aloud. Captain James Fitzjames, dunderheaded fraud, needs his First to guide him in all matters. I wish I were not so awful at this, Francis. Really, I do. I – ” he let out a shaky breath, “ – you would not believe how shockingly ignorant I was, prior to this voyage. Over what we might face. How best to act. Think I told Sir John Barrow we could simply walk to the North Pole from here. Is that not ludicrous?”

His awkward, self-deprecating laugh echoed throughout the berth.

“Here is where you would perhaps remind me that I have always been rather ludicrous. And to some extent that is a correct assessment. I do enjoy my little creative frivolities. Storytelling. Excellent pantomime. Writing.” He sighed again. “Though I do not possess one-tenth the talent to pursue any such ventures in earnest. Likely why I have never crafted my memoirs. As you would say, no one could find a single point of interest beyond the battle-worthy, hm? Hard to garner acclaim for an epic poem about Birdshit Island.”

He regarded Francis’s still form, his too-pale face relaxed in sleep.

“Ah, Francis.” On an impulse, he reached out to touch the other Captain’s hand, though he found he could not quite place it over Francis’s own when it came down to it. Instead, James allowed his fingertips to graze the barest side of an index finger. “Things are not the same without you.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> “...é por favor, cuidado com o cordame…” = be careful of the rigging  
> “Ele gostaria que você de focar a carga, no caso, não era óbvio. É ele vai te recompensa muito generosamente para o seu trabalho.” = He'd like you to focus on the cargo, in case it wasn't obvious. And he will reward you very handsomely for your hard work.
> 
> Adeus, queridas senhoras espanholas! = Goodbye, my dear Spanish ladies. (Original lyric: Farewell and adieu, to you Spanish ladies.)
> 
> Brinde à saúde de meninas adoráveis! = Toast to the health of lovely girls (originally: And here's to the health of each true-hearted lass.)
> 
> A chantar m'er is one of the [oldest surviving troubairitz songs in the world.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comtessa_de_Dia) Troubadour music, courtly love songs, and more are what inspired Portuguese _fado_ , which is a style of music that came out of the streets of Lisbon.


	4. Chapter 4

First thing Francis realized after opening his eyes – beyond the fact that he was vaguely lucid, alive, and about as hale as if he’d been run down by a steamer train – was that he was not alone. 

At first, squinting one eye open in a bleary way, his head and stomach pounding and his body stiff from disuse, he assumed the second person in the berth was Jopson.

But it was not, and he was still singing, and Francis thought for a long moment that he’d gone straight back into a fever dream.

Sitting at the desk was James, in his shirtsleeves and trousers, balancing some sort of leather-bound journal or sketchbook on his lap, crooning quietly aloud as he worked.

 

_ Well met, well met, my own true love _

_ Well me, well met, cried he. _

_ I’ve just returned from the salt, salt sea _

_ And it’s all for the love of thee... _

 

Francis closed his eyes to prevent catching James’s gaze. Also to stop the room spinning. Easier to huddle under his blankets.

Cold. Shivering.

“Lord, Francis, poor thing. It’s as if we’re still in the Arctic.” A soft laugh interrupted James’s repose; even miserable and wracked with fever, Francis still appreciated the weight of an unfrozen blanket being draped over him. “Here. Hopefully that’s better.”

_ Thank you _ , Francis nearly whispered, but found he did not want to speak, and soon dozed off again, to the low, pleasing sound of James’s baritone.

 

##

 

“Evening, Bridgens.”

John turned, saw Captain Fitzjames at the door to his small berth, and moved back from straightening his makeshift bookshelves.

“Hello, Captain.” In truth, he was rather surprised to glimpse the Captain here at this hour. Normally, if he kept to his usual schedule, this was around the time he’d be walking over to  _ Terror.  _ “What can I do for you, sir?”

“Oh, no, my good man, it’s – nothing like that.” Captain Fitzjames shook his head no, as if embarrassed to be caught asking for something so pedestrian as the attention he was due from his hired stewards. “I was merely wondering if you had perhaps brought something more entertaining than mouldy sea-dog biographies or religious tracts.” A rueful smile; he inclined his head toward John’s books. “Much as we all loved Sir John, his taste in the written word bordered on tragic. And I am afraid I am quite at my wit’s end in the ship’s library.”

“Ah.” Bridgens pursed his mouth as he thought for a moment. “Well, sir, I am sure together we can find a selection much more to your tastes. What should you prefer? I have mythology, the classics, philosophers...”

The Captain’s smile turned knowing. “I enjoy the philosophers, myself, but unfortunately that is not the book for us at this time. Here is what I have gone through most recently. Mainly satirists: Swift, Pope. Select others. Ideally I should like to read a bit of verse, next, but nothing fully romanticized. Something classically bright, yet perhaps a touch… languorous. Or – no, that is not the right word. What is the best description for that sort of, ah, heroic poet?”

“Lyrical?” ventured Bridgens carefully.

“Yes, precisely.” Captain Fitzjames exhaled in clear relief. “You see, Bridgens? You’ve a keen ear for such precise requests. In another life you should have been a curator of the highest order, perhaps in the British Library herself.”

Bridgens did not comment on what flight of fancy had suddenly drawn  _ Erebus’s  _ Captain to Irish writers, satirists in general, and now to poetic Romanticism. He thought, briefly, of the night Sir John passed, and how Captain Fitzjames and Crozier had sat together in the great cabin for many hours, that night, completely undisturbed. How often Fitzjames had visited  _ Terror  _ since that ship’s Captain had been taken gravely ill.

Ill with the rarest of Arctic malaria. Brought on by the polar climate.

Bridgens had additional theories on the validity of such a unique ague attack. But he would share these with no one save Harry.

“I was wondering, also, if you had any authoresses in your own collection.” Fitzjames was studying his nails, now, in a manner far too practiced to be casual. “Or perhaps something a bit more novel than all the old battleaxe stories, eh? Adventure is certainly something we do not lack for at present.”

“Hm. I do not have very many, sir, but there are two novels of that nature you may well appreciate.” Bridgens turned back to his shelf, plucked a book from the far left side and one from the right, and handed these to his Captain, along with a slim volume from Coleridge. “The first is a comedy of marriage, and the other you have likely seen aboard many a ship. A favorite of the young ones.”

“A ha.” Fitzjames seemed pleased, and began to leaf through the selections. “Yes. These will do just fine, I think.”

 

##

 

The next time Francis awoke, it was not to singing of any form, but to a cool damp cloth being swiped across his forehead. He groaned in relief as his skin prickled cool for the first time in days.

“Positively boiling.” James’s baritone again, shockingly gentle. “Hope you’ll forgive me looking in on you so often, you know.” Lowering his voice to a whisper. “Poor Jopson’s run himself ragged. Felt he might collapse unless someone else worried over you.”

_ Why? _

James seemed to hear the unspoken question. “Were you awake, you would likely demand I bugger off and leave you the bloody hell alone.” A sigh. “Therein lies the problem. I have often been alone since we lost Sir John. And solitude does not sit well with me, Francis. Not well at all.” Another pause; he wiped the cloth beneath Francis’s neck, all the way up to his ears, and through the roots of his hair at his temples. Goosebumps traveled up Francis’s arms and spine. “The more occupied everyone else becomes, the more desperate I am for good, honest company. Particularly yours.”

He removed the cloth. A few seconds later Francis heard the soft  _ plip plip _ of water dripping into the pan.

“But I’ll not bore you with my current social troubles, hm?” A deep exhale. He replaced the cloth on Francis’s forehead, and then stepped away. “Let me read to you, my dear fellow. This shall either seem the most unfortunate tale you have ever encountered or you shall love it dearly for its cutting jests and utter domesticity. I know not which, so we must start at once.”

Fitzjames cleared his throat as he sat back down, and began to read. 

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” A small chortle. “Was this authored by Ross the younger’s new mother-in-law? Never fear, I shall continue anew,  _ sans  _ commentary.”

_ However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters… _

Well, that’s ridiculous, thought Francis, but settled back to listen anyway.

 

##

 

“Damn it, he’s seizing!”

Snapping awake at the table in  _ Terror’s _ great cabin, James saw Goodsir and MacDonald both within Francis’s berth, holding him on his side through yet more convulsions.

“Harry, keep him steady!” 

Goodsir pinned Francis’s body to the berth with both hands and one knee. MacDonald had already removed his hands, fumbling in his bag for a vial and – oh, what on God’s green earth was that thing?

“What the hell’s happening?” James demanded from the doorway. Panic welled up in the middle of his chest as he watched  _ Terror’s  _ surgeon pass an enormous needlepoint around ten centimeters in length, through the lantern flame, before screwing the base of it into the end of a metal apparatus. Even looking at such an implement made his head swim. “Good Christ! What – what are you – ?”

“Subcutaneous injection,” interrupted MacDonald, as he calmly poured liquid into the metal barrel now attached to this needle. Quickly, he inserted a plunger-like instrument with a handle at the top to seal the liquid inside, and closed this all up. After seeing the contents emerge in a continuous stream from the needle end, he turned and inserted the point straight into Francis’s arm, just below the elbow. A small rivulet of blood ran down Francis’s pale forearm. “Harry. Six tenths of a grain.”

“Good Christ,” hissed James again, as he watched Goodsir step up to administer this cure. MacDonald kept an eye on his watch as the younger surgeon slowly pushed the lever of this contraption down toward the barrel with fingers and thumb. 

“Sulphomorphide?” asked Goodsir as he worked. He seemed completely unfazed by such monstrous treatments, and was monitoring Francis’s now-lessened shaking with something like fascination. “Atropine?”

“Paraldehyde.” The elder Scotsman actually grinned. “Wait three seconds more before removing the lance.”

Seemingly satisfied, Goodsir got the plunger to the end of the barrel, waited several more seconds as instructed, then removed the lancet from Francis’s arm, quickly swiping away the well of bright blood with a bit of gauze. Although Francis was no longer seizing as before, he was still restless, turning his head from side to side and whimpering under his breath. Fresh tears were now visible on his face.

By this time, fear had paralyzed James’s legs; he gripped the doorframe of the berth with both hands simply to keep standing.

MacDonald had meanwhile moved on to cleaning his equipment over the lantern flame again, as if this were all perfectly normal; by contrast, a great swelling rage unlike any he had ever felt had boiled up in James’s chest.

“What have you done?” he demanded. “Why is he weeping?”

The surgeons locked eyes; Goodsir quickly ushered him backwards into the great cabin. “That is perfectly normal, sir. Only we – the cure we administered now is meant to – to help him sleep, and prevent further epileptic – ”

“Do not shield me from the truth, damn you!” James bellowed, in a tone more approximating Francis’s typhoon command than James’s own, usually cheerful, directive. “Why resort to such extremes?”

“Sir.” The young surgeon drew himself up to full height; an eerie calm descended around him. His normally-thready voice became level and unyielding; although he did not shout, nor raised his voice one whit, his manner of authority was clear. “You understand Captain Crozier’s condition is very serious. Doctor McDonald and I would not prescribe such measures lightly. It is meant to ease his suffering in the fastest possible manner.”

The weakness returned to James’s legs full-force.  _ Ease his suffering. _

“Will he – you’re saying Francis may not – live?”

“We do not yet know. Obviously, it has been a long time since he has gone without spirits.” Goodsir’s eyes were imploring and apologetic behind his spectacles, and for an instant, James wanted to wallop the young surgeon straight in the nose. Then, two tentative hands grasped his shoulders, squeezed his upper arms. “But he is fighting, Captain. You can be sure of that.”

“Fighting,” mimicked James cruelly, even as his mouth twisted on a sob; he covered his lower face with a shaking hand in an attempt to force it back. Yet try as he might, he could not stop the sudden dam from breaking. “Oh, god.”

“Shhh.” Goodsir guided him to a chair, still petting his shoulders, as kindly yet awkwardly as a small child might attempt to comfort a large, mangy dog. “There you are. That’s a good Captain.”

“I cannot lose him, too,” James choked out, and promptly wanted to sink into the floorboards.  _ We. We cannot lose him.  _ “Doctor, you must – you must promise me that – ”

“What’s happened?”

Startling, James glanced up to see Jopson in the doorway, a stack of fresh linens falling to the floor as a fearful cloud slackened his usual smile.

“It’s all right, Mister Jopson,” Goodsir said quickly. “More convulsions. We administered a sedative.”

“Oh. Oh, thank God.” The steward exhaled a visible breath of relief, and met James’s eyes with a frantic wildness that bordered perilously close to understanding. “I thought – ”

“No, no. I am only – tired,” rasped Fitzjames. He removed his hand from his pursed mouth, waved it through the air in an attempt at carelessness. Three fingers trembled visibly as they passed in front of his face. “Tired, and perhaps – perhaps – ”

Witless from fear.

“You ought to return to  _ Erebus  _ and rest, sir.” Jopson had now joined them, was urging Fitzjames to sit up straight, to drink from a glass of ice-cold water. “We’ll see to everything here. If there is – you know I will do all in my power to look after him.”

_ I don’t give a damn what you do,  _ James wanted to snap at the boy.  _ I care about–– _

A low moan from the berth. Seconds later, Doctor McDonald emerged, beckoning toward the group.

“Quickly. He’s asking for you.”

“Yes, of course,” answered Jopson smoothly. He had already picked up the felled linens from the floor. “Captain, I’m – ”

“No, lad, I mean, ah, Captain Fitzjames.”

Caught mid-stride, Jopson turned to stare at James, who barely even noticed the steward’s shocked gawp; he was already stumbling forward into the berth in haste.

“Francis. What is it?”

“James.” Another small cry; the  _ Terror  _ Captain’s heavy eyes regarded him very briefly before they fluttered several times. Even in this light, they were as pure blue as a Lisbon sea. “‘M sorry.”

“Don’t you dare,” James told him fiercely. On impulse, he reached out to clasp his friend’s hand, very firmly, this time. “I shall be here when you wake, Francis. I swear it.”

But there was no reply; Francis was already somnolescent; eyes closed, body slack, and mouth open slightly, as if the earlier episode had never even occurred. 

Quickly, James pulled his hand away, composed himself, and stepped backwards into the great cabin.

Together at the table, as they put the remainder of their instruments away, MacDonald seemed to be affecting innocence, whilst Goodsir still wore a hesitant, sympathetic look. Next to them, however, Jopson stood ramrod straight, fingers trailing over the linens in his hands. James could see a single muscle working in the young man’s jaw, and perhaps even a telltale sparkle in his eyes, not attributable to the lantern flame.

“Sir, may I – be excused?” A pause; the smallest throat-clearing. “I, ah, ought to see Mister Diggle about Captain’s supper.”

Fitzjames nodded his assent. “Dismiss.”

Jopson departed without delay. 

All parties assembled pretended not to notice the quiver of despair on the steward’s face as he fled the room, and said nothing about it in the hours hence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song James sings in this chapter is called "House Carpenter", and has several versions, although [this one is my current favorite.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKSn34z8dTs)
> 
> Although the hypodermic needle as we know it (with a glass syringe) was not invented until 1853, hollow needles and other implements were used to inject medicine directly into the bloodstream. Its inventor also studied in Edinburgh and got his license from the Royal College of Surgeons, so I took a little medical liberty there. 
> 
> Paraldehyde was used throughout the 18th century as an epileptic cure, as it put the person to sleep without stopping respiration. Later, it was used as part of the "twilight sleep" cocktail to knock out women in labor!


	5. Chapter 5

Ten days had passed since Francis’s last drink.

Though the surgeons got busier and the frequent bouts of emesis now occurred less and less often, James still visited every night, either to sit with Francis in silence, read to him, or simply talk to him the way they might have over an evening smoke at the club.

Tonight, he was deep into their newest novel.

“ _Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons.”_ James let out a breath that was meant to substitute for a laugh. “Well you may gasp, ladies. All occupants of this room might die of horror rather than be lectured by an oily young clergyman. Ahem. Where was I – ah, yes: _Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages...”_

“Speak Fordyce, an’ die.”

Glancing up with a gasp, James caught Francis’s eyes, open and fairly alert. “Francis!” He was momentarily so grateful that his throat closed up with relief. With effort, he forced himself to relax, to breathe.

“How do you feel?”

Still lying on his side, Francis grumbled out a wordless noise, clutching the blankets in both hands, which were in turn tucked close under his chin, as if he were a feverish child. “Like shite.”

“No wonder.” James tried to smile at the man, but found it came off strained; indeed, he could hardly force his mouth open to speak. “You – I don’t think you’ve eaten properly in days.”

“Oh.” Francis visibly steeled himself against the cramps in his stomach, and made a pained noise. “Don’t talk of food.”

“Well – what – what shall we talk of, then?”

“Bloody fucking anything.”

James bit the inside of his mouth in an attempt to control his first instinct, and made a light jest of this reply. “His Irish temper returns at last.”

“Mmph.” A pause. “Water.”

Setting his book aside for a moment, James got up to help Francis take a sip of icy water; it was nearly too much for his stomach to handle, judging by the way Francis stiffened and pushed the cup away after less than a second of drink. After taking several harsh breaths, the Irishman finally relaxed.

“Any more?” asked James.

“No.”

He helped settle Francis against his pillows, mopped his face with a fresh cloth, and untangled the sheet from between his bare legs.

“James,” came the soft croak after a couple of minutes.

“Hm?” James moved back towards the desk chair. "What can I do, Francis?"

Francis’s eyes were still open; he held James’s curious gaze. “Keep reading?”

“Ah.” Fitzjames did smile, this time, much as he tried to temper it. “Yes, of course.” He could not resist throwing in one last jest. “Never thought you’d _request_ hearing my voice.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Francis shut his eyes. “Not really listening.”

“Naturally. Then I alone shall find out what’s happened to our esteemed heroines.”

Picking up the book again, he cleared his throat, and began to read, adopting a high falsetto for Miss Lydia. _“Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away Richard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town."_

“Wha’s poor Denny done to deserve her?” came the grumble from the berth.

“Thought you weren’t listening,” remarked James in a sly undertone.

“‘M not.” Francis shifted on his back, and settled both hands over his chest. “Don’t care.”

 

##

 

The Second Sight did not just show Francis the past.

One night, Francis drifted off to the sound of James’s voice, reading that bloody book as animatedly as if he were being asked to script the damn stageplay, and saw an image so incomprehensible that even his witchy Papist Memo Moira might have considered it accursed.

_Here, he regarded the Captain’s berth as if from a great height and distance; here on his back, propped up against two pillows, lay Fitzjames, completely bare, although his lower half was covered mainly by blankets. His dark hair spilled across half-frozen linens and a pinkish flush dusted his still-vaguely-tan cheeks and chest. He was panting as breathlessly as if they’d been hauling for days on end. And atop James lay Francis himself, positioned nearly between the other man’s legs so that only his shoulders and the back of his head were visible._

_Although most of his own body was covered by the blankets tangling together at the end of the berth – thank God for that – the obscene context was abundantly clear._

_What Francis could not understand was why they had landed here at all._

_On the berth, the vision of James clutched at one of his hands, just above the blankets, as the Francis of this mirage laved kisses down the Erebus Captain’s strong, lean abdomen. As Francis did this, James laced their fingers together and gripped Francis’s hand with a panic now-bordering on desperation. The gesture, small as it was, prompted as visceral a pulse of desire as anything Francis had ever felt for a woman._

_“Francis, please. Take me.”_

_A pause. His fingers tightened around the back of James’s palm._

_“You’re sure?”_

_As tender a question as he had ever put to Sophia, in similar circumstances. Francis could still remember the sweetness and the agony of her soft curves pressed up against his body in the candlelight of his room, desperately trying to stay silent in the dark; and yet somehow now, in a Captain’s berth – on one of Her Majesty’s ships! – two senior wardroom officers had managed to steal a moment of their own together._

_But how? And when? And why?_

_The James of his vision had given an answer; the Erebus Captain was already pulling Francis up toward the pillows. Seeing James stripped of his affectations was near-mesmerizing; Francis could not stop watching the way Fitzjames’s entire body stuttered and trembled with every breath. Awe-struck, he marveled at the manner in which his own hands traced so lovingly down James’s sides..._

Jolting awake, a temporary panic consumed him, wherein he could not remember where he was, and if he was alone in his bed; within seconds, the details came into better focus: he could pick out his berth, the desk, and Fitzjames in the chair with his legs propped up on the middle of the rail, fully clothed, having stopped reading halfway down the page.

“Francis? You all right?”

“I, ah.” He swallowed, tried to breathe. “Just a – a dream. Sorry. Erm. Keep on.”

James’s brows drew down into a puzzled shape, clearly concerned, but if he had particular worries that plagued his thoughts, or had viewed any part of what Francis himself had just glimpsed with the Second Sight, he kept such observations to himself, and continued reading.

 

##

 

“Eurgh.”

Francis groaned softly as he hobbled back toward his berth from the seat of ease, blanket slipping from his shoulders as he slowly walked forward. God damned horrors. Two weeks ago he could’ve walked clear across King William Land and now he could barely make it to the toilet to piss without stopping to rest at the table.

Well. Perhaps he couldn’t have walked across King William Land stone drunk. That was why he’d done this, after all.

Inside the berth, he could just glimpse a pair of black-booted feet, and a pair of long limbs flopping every which way within the confines of the desk chair. How in god’s name Fitzjames could sleep like that, Francis would never know.

The door to the berth opened; Francis expected to see Jopson when he glanced up, and instead met Edward’s shocked gaze.

“Captain! I was only – ”

“At ease, Edward.” Francis raised a hand, winced, and then fumbled for the nearest chair. “Sure you were only dropping in.”

“I am so glad to see you, sir.” Edward quickly took a seat in the chair nearest him, looking for all the world like an enthusiastic ship’s boy, despite the officer’s uniform. “The men have been rather concerned, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“No concern is necessary.” Francis could not help casting an amused look back toward the berth, where Fitzjames was now snoring audibly. “Although perhaps they should see about that one, there. I am beginning to suspect he’s abandoned his post.”

“Who has?” Edward rose from his chair slightly, and peeked around the corner, just enough to glimpse James’s boots before sitting back down. “Oh, Captain Fitzjames. Of course.”

“Been here often, has he?”

“We’ve certainly been seeing a fair bit of each other lately.” A small smile tugged at Edward’s mouth. “Think LeVesconte might have him shot with an arrow at any moment.”

“Arrow?”

Francis could not temper his initial reaction. Had he said something in his fever delirium? Did Edward truly understand what he had intimated?

“Like the, ah, African warrior tribes? Hypnotic-tipped darts, and all that nonsense.”

“Ah,” said Francis, and tried to smile, although his mind had gone straight to mythological sources. Cupid’s bow. Damned ridiculous. “Well, if he has done, we may yet hear about it.” Hearing an almost infinitesimal shuffle inside the berth, he raised his voice. “Only the man sleeps like a damned paralytic.”

No answer came from inside the berth save for a soft, low exhale of amusement. So Fitzjames had heard.

“Lieutenant Little?” came a hesitant voice from outside.

Edward glanced aft, awkwardness pulling at his strained gaze. Francis saw he was keeping the lad from his duties, and so waved a hand to dismiss him.

“I’ll not keep you any longer, then, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, sir.” With a rueful smile, Edward got to his feet, and gave him a nod. “We shall speak again later.”

Knowing how unsteady he was on the best of days, Francis waited until the door had closed again to get up from his chair, and begin the long trek back to the berth.

James, from within: “I can help you, Francis.”

_“No.”_

Even this much left him winded. Francis made the long shuffle back to the doorway, gripping the frame tightly; by the time he glanced over at the berth, clearly apprehensive at traveling the remaining distance, James had already risen and was extending one arm to him.

“Don’t let’s mimic our dear Miss Bennet now.”

“Jesus Christ.” Begrudgingly, Francis allowed the man to wind an arm around his shoulders, and to help him up into the berth. By the time he crawled back up toward his pillow, his arms shook wildly and his head spun like a top. “Should have known you’d start quoting that ridiculous thing at all hours of the day. Next you’ll attempt to walk to Rosings bloody Park.”

Fitzjames’s eyebrows rose so high they nearly disappeared into his hair. “Rosings Park?”

“Or whatever the damn name is,” Francis said quickly. “Sure I don’t know.”

“Of course,” agreed James in a calm, neutral tone. This was contradicted by the small smile now stretching over his face, which seemed positively giddy though it represented but a twitch of amusement. “Naturally, I shall keep a weather eye out for the imitable Lady Catherine, our dear Miss de Bourgh, and all the rest.”

“Mmph.” Francis settled back into the blankets. “And Colonel what’s-his-face.”

“Yes.” Fitzjames had the audacity to snort aloud. Francis closed his eyes to keep from seeing the merry, derisive smirk now directed his way. “How on earth could I forget our most beloved military man, Colonel _what’s-his-face._ Why, if only we could recall our players’ names as well as those given to their insufferable aunt’s grand houses.”

“God in heaven.” Francis cracked one eye open. “Are you going to read any more or will you simply stand there and torture me forever?”

“In truth, I think I much prefer the torture,” said Fitzjames airily, but went to fetch the book from where he had dropped it on the floor.

 

##

 

_But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an enquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began, “In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”_

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Francis hissed, squinting down at the page. Even balanced against the back of the berth, he found it rather difficult to read for long. He needn’t have tried it at all, had James not nodded off in the middle of a chapter. “Darcy, you absolute cock-up!”

Impatient, he quickly scanned the next few paragraphs, convinced there was going to be some hideous turn of feeling in which the new lovers made their disgustingly happy vows, but instead – instead –

“Jesus bloody Christ. She’s actually turned down ten thousand a year.”

And appeared not to regret this decision to boot!

He continued reading, and took comfort in one small point of fact. Although Sophia’s refusals – plural – had stung deeply, at least he himself had never been accused of ungentlemanly behavior. Or been stupid enough to insult a lady’s parents whilst in her particular company. Point, Francis Crozier.

He scanned the following page, and the next, and the next, and found he was rather absorbed by the contents by the time he reached a new chapter.

“Take the damned letter, idiot. He would not have sought you out otherwise.”

A soft, sleepy murmur came from the middle of the bunk, where Fitzjames had nodded off directly into the blankets. He had now been sleeping propped against the side of the berth for nearly an hour. One lanky arm stretched lightly across Francis’s knees. His head was pillowed next to Francis’s right thigh.

“Reading ahead, old boy?”

A lock of dark hair fell across his face and into one eye as he turned to meet Francis’s innocent expression. Francis could no sooner glimpse James in such a disheveled state than remember the other, more shocking picture still vividly lodged in his memory, which he had sworn to forget at the swiftest possible opportunity.

But imprints from the frozen linens were still pressed into James’s cheek and his usual guileless charm wrapped as loose and unfocused around his body as was the blanket tucked around his shoulders, and suddenly Francis knew not where to look, or what to say.

“Thought you were s’posed to wait,” said James now, as if Francis simply had not caught his earlier remark.

 _Wait for what_? Francis nearly asked, but managed to hold his tongue just in time.

“Not if you plan to sleep all night,” he answered lightly, ignoring the fact that he was, as yet, still not cleared from convalescence.

Unless he could convince Jopson to let him out in time for first sunrise, in which case Francis might try to beat back a clear path onto the quarterdeck using only this book, a mass of half-frozen blankets, and his empty porcelain basin, frostbitten fingers and toes be damned.

“But now I’ll not know the amusing bits,” James complained as he sat up, rubbed a hand across his jaw, and stretched his arms above his head. His eyes slipped closed as he did this. “Has that Darcy finally wisened up? Or is Colonel Fitzwilliam ahead?”

With astonishment, Francis noticed first that the man had actually _slobbered_ on a small patch of the blankets whilst sleeping, and second, that apparently he was not bothered a whit by such a thing. In fact, Francis now seemed to care more about glimpsing the pale thread of skin briefly exposed between James' shirttails and the top of his trousers than he did about decorum.

God in heaven. What the hell was happening?

“Well,” with a grudging noise, as he averted his eyes from James’s lean, still-striking form, “suppose I could be persuaded to go back a few pages, if you’re so desperate to hear the middle of the tale.”

“Oh ho.” Fitzjames gave him a coy, falsely-wide smile; in past, Francis might have scorned him for that, were he not now completely certain this false charm was no more than a private game between friends. “Indeed he is a jolly good fellow. Making such a heralded sacrifice at such an inconvenient time.”

“Ah, sod off.”

“Why, I wager I could post a letter to the Admiralty at this very minute – ”

Francis had to bite the inside of his mouth to hide a smile. “Do you ever cease such endless, dreary repetitions?”

“ – informing them of the heroics that have been done this day, within the confines of the Captain’s berth itself. Nay, I shall inform our company directly, and make particular note of it in my next Divine Service. Our most generous leader, Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, has seen fit to turn back a mere ten pages in our shared book, all for the love of me.”

“Sit forward a little, James.” Francis closed the tome, held it upright, and mimed tossing the spine toward Fitzjames’s head, pitching his voice in a deadpan manner. “I should like to catch you square on the nose if possible.”

And Fitzjames laughed – genuinely laughed! – clutching his sides like he had just been told the best joke in the world. All traces of priggish morality vanished from his face, and in those few moments of shared humor, Francis swore he glimpsed the searching, vulnerable soul still hiding beneath its manic mask of geniality, and loved the man all the better for it.

“Here,” he said, and softly tossed the book towards his legs, where it nudged up against one of Fitzjames’s hands. “You do the honors.”


End file.
